Page 5 of A Change of Location
Recalling his fondness for it, Hannah was flattered.
***
With an apology to his dinner companion, Martin tucked his mobile back into his jacket pocket. “An early night for me. Party tomorrow. Must conserve my strength.”
“That’s unexpected,” retorted Daniel Wheeler. “Your infinite nights—and mornings—in the discos are the stuff of legend.”
“Clubs,” Martin corrected before sipping his single malt, aged to perfection in an obscure but renowned Highland distillery. “That’s the preferred term these days.”
Over a superb dinner they had covered the serious topics—investments, property valuations, taxes. Even with capable, calculating Dan advising him, he often had to deal with essential matters that had pushed his father into an early grave.
“Whose party? Anyone I know?”
“American bird. With Acorn Films.”
“You’re trying to pull an actress? Good luck to you.”
“If I shagged one of Cole’s lady customers, he’d banish me, along with all the Milver Vale cheese. For my dairymen’s sakes, I dare not exercise my lordly rights up and down the Row. I can’t risk the sort of lurid headlines that would result from a charge of sexual harassment. ‘The Sex Mad Marquess of Mayfair.’ Or ‘Lusty Latimer on the Prowl.’”
“Thirty is a milestone birthday,” Dan reminded him. “Best get busy.”
“Skirt chasing?”
“Making little Latimers. At your advanced age, you need to settle down with a well-connected, parentally approved, countryside-loving lass.”
“The lasses with whom I’m presently acquainted are social media influencers who trade on their titles to accrue followers. They look like anorexics. As far as I can tell, they’re only interested in posting selfies. Partying. Clubbing. Not my scene.”
“It was. Before you broke up with Natalie.”
“She got cross if I wouldn’t go out with her and her cadre of friends. Dull as ditchwater, all of them, and just as shallow. I had heaps more fun during my misspent youth. When the music was better. And if you heard I was responsible for ending our relationship, you were misinformed. She met an Italian duke during her Alpine skiing holiday at Christmastime. On Valentine’s Day she married him.”
His dismay at being discarded by the duchessa subsided weeks before her lavish wedding, which he and several of her former romantic partners had attended. He’d been sorely tempted to offer condolences to her bridegroom in place of congratulations. In his less-than-objective opinion, Natalie’s character flaws included a lack of consideration for people’s feelings and a misplaced sense of her own fabulousness. Her newlywed status might satisfy her craving for attention to some extent, and it ensured a desired prominence in the social columns. But he questioned the durability of her hasty marriage.
“How long do you remain in town?” Dan asked.
“No more than a few days. I was urged to attend my board of directors meeting in person rather than via video call. I’ll be dashing back to Somerset as soon as I can get away—lots to do there. The proposal for the Little Milver factory renewal is nearly finished, soon to be shared with the larger planning committee. Mother’s coming over from France to assist with the Milver Vale Flower Fete. And I need to prepare my presentation on the eco-tourism venture for the Milverston parish council.”
“All work, no play,” the solicitor warned, reaching for his whisky and soda.
“I could level that criticism at you.” Martin shrugged. “Me, I’m making up for lost time. I messed about with odd jobs and travel as long as I could. I didn’t fancy ending up like Rufus, one of the truly idle aristocrats. His greatest achievement was his longevity.”
Said Dan, in a voice of supreme satisfaction, “By living seven years after he deeded the entire Somerset estate and the Cumbrian castle to you, and putting the London properties into a trust, he saved you a fortune in inheritance tax.”
Martin raised his glass. “To the late Marquess. Every year at my birthday Rufus purchased a case of champagne from the Latimer Row vintner, who sent it to Stanwell. He always arranged for me to receive one bottle from the batch. Even when I was a boy.”
Martin had been enormously fond of his uncle, who was also his godfather, and he’d enjoyed his rare and brief childhood visits to the ancestral country house. Infrequent interactions hadn’t bridged the extreme gap in their ages, upbringing, and interests, although Rufus had been dutifully avuncular. He was present for entrance day at Eton and turned up for a tennis match the following spring. During the next term Martin’s father died—prematurely and unexpectedly. Rufus assumed various paternal roles, attending parents’ dinners, and offering advice on which Oxford college might best suit the heir apparent of a titled bachelor who possessed multiple properties. Whenever family members accused the future marquess of being wild and odd and unreliable, Rufus had responded with a strong defense, earning Martin’s everlasting gratitude. In return, he’d steadfastly guarded Lord Milverston’s privacy and dignity, before his demise, and ever since. He’d never confirmed the faint but persistent rumors about his uncle’s sexual preference.
He must’ve been damned lonely, Martin reflected during his solitary walk past packed restaurants and dark shopfronts. Wish I’d realized it much sooner.
Like the majority of Mayfair’s aristocratic mansions, the original Latimer House had been demolished. Its replacement, erected in the 1920s, was an imposing mixed-use structure with ground floor offices and luxury apartments above.
“Evening, sir,” the night porter greeted him.
“Any winners today?” Martin inquired.
“Not a one.” Lorcan, who frequented the betting shop, aspired to buy shares in a racing syndicate. His fiancée had other plans for their savings.
“Better luck tomorrow.”
